


Take My Breath Away

by mars_rover



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Angst, Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Dubious Consent, Gen, In Water Ending (Silent Hill) - Freeform, Masturbation, Mentions of Death, Strangulation, Suicidal Thoughts, Tags Contain Spoilers, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26463349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mars_rover/pseuds/mars_rover
Summary: Watching every motion in my foolish lover's gameOn this endless ocean, finally lovers know no shame
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Take My Breath Away

**Author's Note:**

> Preemptive trigger warning for mentions of death and the implicated contemplation of suicide.
> 
> Also there will be asphyxiation. I'm not into it myself, but I know James probably would be, so I tried to make it as tolerable as possible to those who aren't into it. Hopefully it won't be very disturbing.

James Sunderland is a shell of his past self. The color in his once sprightly green eyes is now glazed over and washed out. They feel hollow and heavy in his skull, encircled by dark rings being accentuated by the jagged shadows cast by his flashlight. His expression is despondent.

From a quick glance, one could mistake him for just another of the various victims of Wood Side. But that would only be partially true. He feels dead, but also alive. Like a reanimated corpse, or a tangible ghost. His only sign of life is the shaky breathing that rises in his chest.

His legs shift against the stained mattress. His pipe is resting in his hand beneath a crushing grip, while his metal pipe sits on the bureau. A cord around his neck binds him to the headboard.

His fingers begin to move with a natural precision, like such actions come as an instinct to him. And they do; he had three years to perfect the messy art of self-satisfaction. Of course, it always came nowhere near satisfaction, especially while She wasn't there.

His breathing comes out ragged, and it's the only thing he can hear other than the pounding in his ears and the awkward rustling of his jacket sleeve against his thigh.

James falls into a rhythm and his mind goes back to the thoughts that had been haunting him ever since he woke up with his torso draped over the fence surrounding the Lake. _Why is he here?_ He shouldn't be here again. His Monster was gone; he'd surrendered to his fate. So why was he back? Did none of it happen?

No. It all felt too real to him to be imaginary: the sharp recoil of the pistol in his hands, the icy cold blade of the knife against his skin as he stared at his reflection in it, the excitement in his heart upon seeing the spitting image of his wife.

His cock twitches at this, and a groan blossoms in his throat, just above the cord. His existential thoughts dissipate and give way to the sense of urgency for his own pleasure. James leans his head forward, and its hold tightens, sending waves rippling down his spine that end at his penis, crashing at the shoreline.

He shuts his eyes, visualizing himself on that same bed. A woman is straddling him. Her clothes and hair shift between each other, but Her face stays the same. Hatred burns in Her eyes, hot like kindled coals. Her hands are locked around his neck.

_I hate you._

James's voice comes out in a paltry gasp; a weak attempt to expel one of the two names that ghost his lips. His thumb passes over the tip, eliciting a pathetic-sounding whine.

She doesn't find his pleasure amusing and a growl rumbles past Her gritted teeth. Her voice is drenched in contempt.

_You let me die._

Wetness forms at his eyelids and rolls down his pallid cheeks, like parted lovers. Bluish gray lips quiver. God, She's so beautiful. He desperately wants to reach out, to touch her skin, to feel some kind of connection with the amalgamation of the women he loved. His arms remain locked in place.

 _I’m sorry,_ he thinks _. I love you,_ he thinks.

Her glare is playful and dangerous. Her hair goes from light brown to bleached yellow and back again.

_I won’t forgive you._

He coughs on his words as the woman in front of him distorts into a hulking, masculine figure. A bulky dome of red metal rests where Its head should be; a sight that sends a fearful mix of dread and arousal to the pit of his stomach. He’s seeing himself standing in the now opened closet with the Thing holding him by the neck with a gloved hand.

Without much effort, the Figure lifts James and slams his back against the wall, the defined muscles in Its arm shifting and pulsating as It squeezes his windpipe as if it was the hilt of Its blade. James can feel himself swimming in the humid, inhuman breaths that hit his skin.

He lets out a raspy moan and throws his head forward. The cord obliges and tightens further.

Any semblance of finesse is abandoned in favor of jerking his fist wildly along his shaft. A hot tightness builds in his groin, and his cock throbs in tandem with his heartbeat, which is so loud it almost obstructs his own mental image.

His breaths, quick and shallow, morph into delicate whimpers and gasps as he fantasizes his Guardian squeezing harder, making perverted groans from underneath Its helmet as It watches Its victim's life being snuffed out and ending his eternal torment.

The widower’s ears are flooded with Her voice. She’s screaming, wailing, coughing, sobbing.

_You’re disgusting._

James pulls on the cord as hard as he can.

Sparks ignite in the corners of his vision upon his orgasm, the strength of it sending a burning shockwave flowing throughout his nervous system. His body convulses as he thrusts upward into his fist. Hyperventilating breaths lead into a strangled moan. His seed strikes his knuckles and the hem of his shirt, but he's too lightheaded to notice where else.

James's eyes open lazily to observe the wanton display of the aftermath. The bright illumination provided by the flashlight in his breast pocket assists his now hazy vision. His legs are spread like a dead nurse's and his penis is bright pink and practically weeping from its abuse. He chuckles darkly. If this is to be his last moments, so be it. He'll go out living his life like the disgusting person he is.

His view continues to fade. And on the cusp of unconsciousness– the promise of a brief escape, or even permanent release– the cord relinquishes its hold and unties itself. Oxygen rushes into his lungs as he coughs and sputters. The town has no intention of letting him go, even momentarily.

The orgasmic tide begins to recede. The oppressor sighs as he brings his dirtied hand to his mouth and cleans it off with his tongue.

It tastes like the Lake.


End file.
